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Chapter 4

It only took a little over an hour for Joji to finish off the rest of his pack of cigarettes. Likewise, what few beers were left in the cooler were now gone. But a bottle of wine and five beers wouldn't cause Joji to lose his grip. He never drake beyond his own consciousness. Though he was drunk, he was still in control, which is what he liked the most. In this state, he could shamelessly let his thoughts flow through his mind without scrutinizing each one with his ridged, yet precise perception.

I should write a book...an autobiography...

The thought made Joji smile a little in amusement, but he did not snub it. Rather, its sincerity made it all the more entertaining. Not that the idea wasen't peculiar, after all, who ever heard or cared about the brother of a rock-star. Then again, that just might its best marketing pull.

Joji rubbed his eyes, which were a bit hazy, but regardless, he managed to turn with ease and start across the deck towards the door. He yawned deeply as he ran his right paw through his pointed ears, using his left to reach through the gap between the glass, flicking on the light to the kitchen. Then he looked down at the broken glass spread across the kitchen floor, as well as on the deck doormat placed at the base of the doorway. With a practical sigh, Joji bent down and lifted up the mat, holding it by both ends and bending it to allow the glass to collect in the center. He proceeded to carry the mat to a trashcan that sat adjacent to the cooler. After filling the can with broken glass, he flung the mat over the side and beat it hard four times. Then Joji walked back over to the doorway, slid the door open and flung that mat through the opening, landing it on the kitchen floor, abridging it over the cast of jagged crystals to the carpet of the adjacent living room. With a leap over the mat, he landed on the living room carpet.

Joji again gazed at the kitchen floor.

"Can't it wait for tomorrow?" he whispered to himself. He stared at the floor tiles, each piece of glass as menacing as the blade of a spear, not to mention those tiny pieces deceitfully hiding within the collection of debris. Joji panned his eyes over to the doorway, and then over to the microwave where the time glowed in eerie green light in the corner: 12:16pm. He signed.

No...it's still early for a Saturday night...err Sunday morning...this can't be here at daybreak.

So Joji staggered over to the basement door, where there was a thin broom stashed in the corner of the first step. After removing the mat and throwing it back outside, he started to sweep up the glass, which had been spread out about four feet. Once knee deep into the process, he let routine take over, almost like falling into a voluntary impulse of automatic motions as he let his mind wander into more deep thought. Since a young age, Joji liked this feeling because he could be doing something useful while lost in his own world. No one could reproach him for daydreaming then.

It couldn't begin like this, Joji thought regarding the flash of inspiration for his hypothetical autobiography.

No...people might get the wrong idea.

As he listened to the glass scrap across the tiles, he wondered how he would open it. He never believed that he was much for creative writing. The only thing he enjoyed writing, and reading for the most part, were police reports. But even with those, he couldn't avoid the same obstruction: how to begin. Once he would get past all the routine stuff (names, dates, addresses, etc.) he could spend up to an hour staring at the screen, his paws on his forehead, yearning for something to pop in his mind that would tie everything together at once and allow him to flash from beginning to end like the ignition to a car. If only that's how it worked.

Hi, Joji Barkan here...

Joji rolled his eyes and huffed at the sentence. It sounded so childish, unoriginal, and foolish. But he had to start somewhere.

Hi, my name is Joji Barkan--that's "JA-JE." Don't liberalize the "Jo." I'm a five-foot eleven German Shepard, Japanese Akita (and maybe a little Collie) mix, in case you didn't get that from my cover picture.

Joji chuckled to himself, but continued.

I'm in my late twenties and live out here in the Midwest. I'm a deputy officer at the Chemung County with four years under my belt. Now I'm running for County Sheriff. Bit of a stretch? That's what others have told me, but I don't think so. I know what I'm doing. I can excel in this line of business. In fact, being a police officer has fit me perfectly, surpassing any other occupation I've ever had. Well, perhaps all but one.

Joji smiled as he swept the glass into a dust pan, prompting it up with his foot. A bit of a rough start, he thought, but at least he was moving. He looked up, gazing across at the pictures that hung on the living room wall. They were of Joji dressed in a military ACU, tellingly younger, especially with his thinner physic. Some of them featured him posing with his gun over bright brown sand dunes or near signs written in Arabic. Most of them were of him with other soldiers, happily posing around shabby buildings or wrecked statutes. Joji's favorite, however, was the one of him smacking a golf ball off a rubber tee and into long pool outside of one of Saddam's former palaces.

I was in the Army for a few years. Right out of high school. Two tours in Iraq, a __Silver Star_ , and even a Purple Heart. Maybe we'll get there with that story, but I gotta motivate you._

Joji walked over to a cupboard beneath the sink, opening it up and disposing of the remnants of his glass door into the trashcan below the sink.

Why do you care? Well...probably because of the guy you just saw smash my door. As you must know by now, he's my older brother, and I know you know him. You at least heard his name, or listened to his voice--or more likely the riffs from his guitar--over your radio. He's the lead guitarist for the band Highways, you know...that popular blues-rock band? That's right...my brother is Gus LaFlure. Course, around family, he likes being called August. It's short for Augustine Fancis LaFlure.

Once he disposed of the glass, Joji quickly mopped up the area around the base of the sliding doorway. Then he draped a plastic cover, which he took from the basement, from the top of the doorway, holding it up with long strips of heavy duty tape.

That'll do for now. Should keep the draft out.

Finally done, Joji started for the living room. Plopping himself on the couch beside the small lamp table upon which rested, besides a lamp, the scented candle, and a picture. As Joji picked up the picture and placed it before his gazing eyes, his illusory narrative resumed.

I know it's crossed your mind, "How can two brothers have two different last names and look nothing alike? In body or character?" Well as a matter of fact, biologically we are half-brothers. Same father but different mothers. That's why we are both part German Sheppard, but his mother was an Irish setter. That's who he gets his red and pink fur, his bright green eyes, and his last name from.

It was a family picture, featuring Joji, August, and Helen, August's twin sister, standing behind a smiling, tall, tan furred German Shepard with Joji's earthly brown eyes, and a beautiful Irish-Setter who were both seated in front of them. August was standing in the center--being the tallest--grinning widely with his arms around both of his siblings. Joji was grinning too, but standing more upright and Helen--who looked strikingly like her mother with the exception of darker fur--stood arms crossed, slightly leaning to her toward August, and sporting a confident smile that little more transcended a smirk.

Needless to say, I come from a strange family. Apart from my brother's stardom, my dad is the owner of a widely successful casino near New Orleans, my old stopping ground, and even spent a term as governor of Louisiana. He didn't run for re-election for personal reasons, but you can figure that out on your own. However, by dad's backstory is essential to how our family turned out the way it did; but I'll just cover the basics right now. The late seventies found him in San Francisco where he met mom...err...August and Helen's mom. Anyway, he stayed with her for a while and...well...conceived August and Helen. But he wasn't there when they were born around nineteen-eighty. He unfortunately...err...well let's just say he kinda snapped and ran off, leaving mom--she's the only mom I knew--to raise August and Helen by herself...or at least until Uncle Dodge came into the picture, but we'll definitely get to him later--that I can promise.

Joji looked across the living room and panned over it, making a mental check of every picture there. No, he remembered, he did not have a picture of Uncle Dodge down here.

Anyway, as for my dad, he ended up back in New Orleans--his puppyhood hometown--and co-founded a casino called The Atlas. Almost immediately he gained for himself a small fortune--which later turned into a huge fortune--and he decided to spend a year traveling the world. As, I guess, fate would have it, he didn't get very far past Japan. After his ship was forced onto a small island off the Japanese coast, where a small fishermen village was located, he met my mother. My real one.

Once again, Joji panned the pictures of the living room. But he nearly chuckled at himself knowing the futility of the search--he had no pictures of her.

She died in childbirth. Mine. After already spending a year on the island and desperate to get home, dad was forced to hire a nurse to feed me until I could finally move to the bottle.

Joji leaned back in his couch, staring up at the darkened ceiling only half illuminated by the reflection of the kitchen against the white paint. He signed deeply as he ran his hands though his ears again.

_During the first decade of my life, dad and I were pretty much on our own. I liked that because I always admired him. He loved his work and he was probably more at home in his casino than in the old plantation he bought and fixed up shortly after he brought me back to the states. But I didn't mind since he let me be there with him. He wanted me around, so he told me that I could go where ever I wanted so long as I didn't bother the staff or customers, and stayed away from the bars and smoking sections. In fact, this is how I later met August and Helen. But as much as I liked coasting through the casino, with the bright lights, good food, great blues and jazz music, and colorful characters, I've always been more of an outdoors boy. Whenever dad was off from work, we'd go fishing in a pond near the plantation house, or boating down the Mississippi. If he was away and left me with a puppy-sitter, I'd still go exploring the bayou that surrounded the plantation. _

Letting out another yawn, stretching his mouth wide and exposing his razor sharp canines, Joji stood up and started back for the hallway. At the foot of the stairs, he looked up toward the dark landing on the top, the only light coming from the bathroom door that was slightly open. Joji began up the stairs, slowly and stealthy taking each step with ease, as not to make the slightest sound. _ _

_Not that my early childhood wasn't ever lonely. We had no close neighbors with our plantation being in the middle of the bayou, so there were no other kids around to play with. And, as you can imagine, there'd be no other kids in the casino. Sure I had friends at school, but that was about the only place we'd be able to hang out. Whenever I'd ask my dad to talk to their parents to see if they could bring them up to the plantation, he'd tell me that they wouldn't because they did want their kids to be "exposed to those who profit off of the unfortunate vices of the soul." I thought it was ignorance, and I still do, only now I suppose I can understand where they were coming from considering all the riff-raff my dad was unfortunate to rub shoulders with. _

Joji encroached on the stair landing, looking down the hallway towards the guest room in the corner beside his bedroom door. The yellow-orange light raying out from the bathroom room door on the opposite side that was cracked open exposed that the door to the guest room was slightly cracked open itself. The gap between the side of the door and the opening of the doorway was filled by blackness.

But all that changed after I was about eleven. That's when I ran into August and Helen.

Joji pushed the guest room door open further, the beam of bathroom light resting on the face of August, who was lying on his side, facing the guest room, shirtless with his hoodie on the floor, clasping his white pillow like a lover, and his eyes shut. He was motionless, expect for the slow, rhythmic expansion and detraction of his body breathing. He was out cold, even when the floor cracked loudly Joji's approach, August did not stir in the least. Nor did August show the least bit of recognition to Joji's presence as his brother sat down beside him.

They came down to New Orleans that summer. They had a gig with what was Highways at the time. August had just been thrown out of high-school for...some problems...and Helen found out that the Big Easy was where their father resided. I won't say how we crisscrossed, or how dad and August's mom got back together, you wouldn't believe it if I told you anyway, but nonetheless, we ended up as a family.

Joji looked at August, visible through the beam of yellow and orange light. He looked so peaceful, undisturbed. However, because he was lying on his left, Joji could not see how bruised or bloody the side of his face had become. Joji sighed softly as he panned his eyes down to August's side. That's when he noticed the black iPhone laying at August's side. Joji picked it up and pressed the round button in the bottom center, lighting the screen up with a bright, white glow. Appearing on the screen was a single track stuck on replay: Pink Floyd's number Learning to Fly. His favorite song.

He, Helen, and mom all moved down to New Orleans from San Francisco after that. Dad got him and Helen into a private high-school. Dad had promised that if August could finish up high school there without flunking, dropping, or getting thrown out, he'd pay for August's college and August could pick whatever college he wanted and could get into. So for the next couple years more or less, they lived on our plantation. I loved it. I they think both, but especially August, loved having a little brother. I was someone he could finally show the ins and outs to, especially in regard to music. He taught me a little guitar and Helen taught me a little piano, but I think it was August's classic rock and Helen's R&B that got me into drums.

Joji's eyes followed the wires from the input in the iPhone to the headphones plugged into August's ears. As Joji leaned forward to remove them, afraid they might strangle or electrocute August in his sleep, he noticed something. Glistening in the bathroom light from both August's eyes were streams of tears; they made the fur on August's muzzle and cheeks look darker. Joji placed his hand on August's head, feeling the soft cartilage of his short, floppy ears run through his fingers.

Don't be fooled. Whoever you are, don't be fooled. I've heard people who thought they knew him say the most fucked up and bullshit things. They've asked things like:

"How can I guy who seems so happy all the time get that upset?"

Or...

"His parents spoil him or something? He's had a nice family, does the coolest things for a living, a girl a day, and he's got the nerve to complain...to bitch and wine. He doesn't even say how much of all that money he gives to charity."

Or...

"He bipolar or something?"

_If I hear that shit again, the guy who says it might not have a neck to hold himself up. Don't act like you know. Don't you fucking dare. You're bitching because he snapped at you once, or left you hanging in one room while he disappeared into another, alone for hours, or maybe drank, smoked, or shot up too much to go out on stage? You feel inconvenienced? You think living with him was fucking Graceland? No...don't tell me you know him...not until you've grown up with no father and your mom telling you all your life that he went nuts and left, leaving you to think that maybe you might mentally bug out someday, or think that the nuts part was just cover for "He wouldn't have left if you weren't born." Try having that hang over you and your own blood father ever since. No of course that's not all! Try having your best friend blown away and...we'll get to that. But you...you know what...you couldn't figure it out even with it right in front of you. Can't you see he's ill. Born sick, been sick, and mostly will be sick till his dying day. And not motherfucker I'm not finished. Not... _

Joji chuckled gravely to himself. No one wants to be reading a rant, especially at them, he thought.

Still leaning close, there was something else Joji noticed that he hadn't before. August was holding something in his right hand just beneath his pillow. Slowly and gently, Joji pulled up the pillow. He couldn't quite make it out at first, only that it was thin, about four inches tall and three inches in width, rectangular, and with pointed angles. Joji easily slid it through August's fingers, still doing nothing to rouse his sleeping brother. Once it was in his grasp, Joji lifted it up to the light. His jaw trembled at its sight. It was a picture, a photo. It was of August in his black leather, jeans, and a pair of black sunglasses, the red Golden Gate Bridge in the background. At his side, he had his arm around a beautiful white husky, her fur and long hair as white as snow. Her lavender eyes sparking in the evening sun, and her jaw dropped in a wide smile that resembled laughing.

Of course, maybe you do have some idea after all. I mean, it was in all the papers, talk shows, and online fan forums. Coming out of a party, stumbling into the parking lot drunk, giggling uncontrollably, and the only thing keeping you up is your young wife. Leaning against her, her with her arm helpfully around your thigh, her sober and full of sarcastism. You whispering into her ear about all the things you're gonna do to her when you get home and her slyly reminding you that the kids are back home. After you struggle to get the keys into the car lock, she snatches them away from you and states plainly that she's driving. And...

It was surreal for Joji. It was the first time he had seen her face in about two years. And the last time he saw her, he was standing over August, who was bruised and bleeding, kneeling over the hospital bed of his dead wife, crying...screaming her name...Jesse... as he clutched onto her beautiful white, husky fur, which had become red, black, and blue. Joji's mind then flashed to him seated next to his brother during the funeral service, having to prompt him up again and again as he near passed out a dozen times.

Getting the idea? 'Cause you need to get the scent of the story. I'm just getting started. This is where we, August and me, really come in together.

Ruffling August's ears one last time, placing the iPhone on the desk beside the bed, and laying the picture beside his brother, Joji got up and started for his room. Once inside, he pulled off his jeans, exposing his loose stripped boxers, and threw off his button down. Doing so, his eyes caught the sizeable rectangle spread out on his bed and wrapped in cardboard paper.

I gotta get to that tomorrow. Tomorrow...of all times.

Joji looked at the clock. It was about ten to one.

Alright...today.

Joji lifted the object off his bed and leaned it against the lampstand. It reminded him of something. He gazed at his wooden dresser that was placed directly across from his bed. Settled right in the center of it was a tin box. Its presence on a nicely carved dresser would seem to be out of place. But not to Joji. It was in just the right place for him, where he could stare at it from his bed even in the late hours of night. Joji stretched his back as he approached it, loosening his arms and rotating his head. Then he placed his hands around the old hunk of metal.

It's funny. Just the other day at the department, some of the guys were talking about where they were on September eleventh. It eventually grew into some of the older cops talking about where they were when the Challenger blew up, or when JFK was killed.

Joji lifted the lid of the box.

_It's funny what kind of things people remember. It was about ten years ago and people can still remember what the weather was like that day, what they had for dinner, who they talked to, what color their first piss was after hearing what happened, the routine stuff of the day that you wouldn't bother to forget in an instant. It seems everyone wants to claim a piece of September eleventh. I guess it's because it was such a turning point, not just politically or historically, but in a single life. Seems like everything was just fine before it, doesn't it? The eighties and nineties seem like some kind of lost city of Atlantis, right? Whatever. We...me and August...we don't need to try and take a piece, you can have it... _

Joji searched through the boxes contents. The potent smell of old rusted tin was strangely friendly full of nostalgia. At the tips of his fingers, he could feel the soft silver or gold of his metals, the rough patches that spelled out the names of his operations in Iraq, the smooth surface of a few bullet shells, a pocket-sized Koran, and even the worn fabric of few of his old ACU insignias. Finally, he felt the rough yet jagged ends of what he was looking for. Pulling it out and holding it up to the bathroom light revealed an old, wrinkled photograph. This was featured Joji, his body thin, though not scrawny, his brown eyes bright, and his fur lighter and smooth: a teenaged body. Standing beside him was August, ironically, not looking a whole lot different, though perhaps a little thinner and brighter himself. Behind them were two silver twin skyscrapers, eerily shining from the reflection of the sun in the east, with musty, gray rain clouds behind it, contrasting with the bright blue sky to the south. The twin towers of the World Trade Center. A small caption in the corner of the picture read in white characters: 9 10 2001.

_...because we've had enough of that day for ourselves. _